


The Diary of Anya Christina Emmanuella Jenkins Giles

by ljs



Series: Investigations and Acquisitions [7]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: AU, Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:39:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic (written several years ago) is an Investigations and Acquisitions story, set a few months after "Postern of Fate." (Thus -- diverging from canon after Season 7 "Showtime"; also including elements from <i>Spooks</i>, diverging after Season 2.)</p><p>It's January 2004, and Anya has a new diary. The question is, what should she record?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Entry

1 January 2004. Swallow's Nest, 11:15 pm

Okay. I feel uncomfortable beginning this diary, since I've never kept one before. Yes, for several centuries D'Hoffryn required daily tabulations of our work -- until I argued that such micro-management was counterproductive for an independent vengeance-contractor -- but listing vengeance done, lives ruined, and quantities of viscera obtained is just not what I do or believe in now. Not who I am.

However, Dawn gave me this attractive silk-bound blank book for Christmas (solstice, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Gurunchar's Ascension) and told me that keeping a journal was a good way to clear one's mind and also to record memories and life-events, either for posterity or for future marital disagreements where I can just point to this historical record and say, "See, Rupert, you're _completely_ wrong and I have proof."

This seems like an excellent thing to have.

But there are questions about diary-keeping, though, such as the best time to do it. New Year's Day began almost twenty-four hours ago, and that would have seemed like an appropriate starting point. However, as midnight struck I was having fast and slightly sweaty illicit sex with my husband in the wine cellar of Jools and Eleanor Siviter's Kensington home, on top of several cases of St. Emilion (technically, I was on top of the cases; R was standing). Not only does it seem backward to postpone an orgasm -- two for me -- for the purpose of writing about it, but also we had sneaked away from Jools and Eleanor's New Year's Eve/return-from-honeymoon party and we needed to get back for the champagne toasts. (Unfortunately, we were a little late in returning, which caused that stupid Jools and also Wesley to make several loud and pointed comments about our absence and current dishabille, making R turn crimson. Or possibly that was just the remaining flush from our sexual exercise, I'm not sure. Still, we did also mention to Jools that he had a pixie problem in his cellars, and got a nice little job out of it for later in January.)

This morning might have been suitable for writing, but we slept too late. The house was quiet for once, what with Dawn visiting Buffy and everybody in Cleveland for the holidays and Andrew on his first mini-break with his new boyfriend Ian. Brighton in January doesn't sound like a great holiday destination to me, but it should work out, since upon his request I took Andrew to a sex-store in Soho before they left and assisted him in the purchase of several useful devices and a great deal of lube. I think they might not be planning to leave their hotel room.

Okay, just a minute -- R just made a very strange snorting noise. I do hope he's not reading this over my shoulder, because diaries are private until explicitly shared for posterity or settling arguments (see above).

No, it was a false alarm. He's looking extremely cuddly yet also arrogant and superior, lying next to me here in bed whilst reading one of the popular demon-slayer works of fiction that Andrew and Dawn got him for Christmas (solstice, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Gurunchar's Ascension); in fact he's muttering to himself and annotating in pen all the authorial mistakes in vampire psychology, physiology, and cultural constructs. Also, he says it's not even good porn.

Maybe I can get him to read aloud to me later. I'd like to judge the quality of the sex scenes myself.

Anyway, this morning after we had sex in the shower and then brunch, we drove to Devon for a few days' holiday and consultation with the coven about one of our cases. We'll also get to visit with Willow and her new friend, Wesley's former associate Fred, who despite the name is a girl; they're both staying at Tor House, Fred being in England on special assignment from Wolfram and Hart to research...something. Possibly her latent lesbianism, I don't know.

The dogs were quite good in the car. Cava only threw up once, outside Junction 17 on the M4; she has a delicate stomach, and she'd gotten into the Fortnum hamper and nibbled on an orange biscuit and some ham. The dogs always enjoy a visit to Swallow's Nest anyway. Last time they executed three hideous evil rabbits, the corpses of which R had to dispose of. He didn't seem so enthused about their hunting, actually.

Okay, now that I read over this, I don't quite see the point to this record-keeping. Perhaps I need more of a focus. Does posterity need to know about Cava's digestive tract and Macallan's bunny-killing? (Unless R wants to fight about their behaviour at some future date.) Maybe I should be more detailed about what exactly our cases should be. Or, maybe I should be keeping lists again -- for example I could keep track of when R and I have sex, what times, positions, locations, etc. Just in case we ever get in a rut....

Although now that I think about it, it's entirely possible R already does keep a list somewhere for himself, as he's never ever repeated himself within a fortnight --

[The diary breaks off here; the next words are written in a bold yet small cursive.]

 **For posterity's sake, however, I've decided I shan't keep a record of my marital sex life, because no one bloody needs to know.**

[and back to the original handwriting]

My husband is a very rude person, and much too grabby with other people's private journals. I think I should keep a record of our sex life; it will be a comfort to me in our declining years, thinking about the varieties of domestic discipline employed, R's skill at oral sex, etc. Or wait -- I bet he does have a list somewhere, I should go look. I wonder where it is and what elements he records --

 **He doesn't have any such thing. He can remember perfectly well without assistance, thank you.**

R should just go back to reading his stupid vampire bad porn and let me write in peace. Besides, his wrestling with me is getting ink all over the sheets, which is hell to get out.

I now am going to start my list, if only for the sake of the children. Okay, last night's sex in the cellar began with fairly traditional attention to my breasts, but then he took off his silk tie --

 **For fuck's sake, Anya, stop it.  
And what do you mean, 'for the sake of the children'?**

Rupert! You just broke my diary!

 **I bloody well did not. And what did you mean, 'the sake of the children'?**

You did too! A journal is supposed to be one woman's written record of her life, not a conversation, you dope. And I mean, the child or children we should be making any day now, who might be interested in the fullness of their parents' lives. I know I haven't brought it up yet --

Hmm. R is turning crimson again, tapping his book ominously against his hand, and beginning to look thunderous. Will return to this entry later.

2 January 2004, 1:30 am

I am currently in the kitchen, having a lovely snack, while R is asleep upstairs. My journal entry started a fiery argument about our having children -- he's not entirely convinced yet, but I'll wear him down; it's just like how he was at first with the idea of the dogs, and we know who won that -- which then led to extremely satisfying rough sex (me tied up with a couple of his belts), the latter of which activities always sends him to sleep and makes me hungry. Mmm, orgasms and roast beef after midnight.

I'll send Dawn effusive thanks later. I think I _love_ my new diary!


	2. Surveillance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anya records a surveillance adventure and a seemingly false start on her scrapbook campaign.

Monday, January 12, 2004. 10:25 pm.

While my poor sore husband is taking a well-earned late bath, I’ll take this opportunity to record today’s events. I should be able to finish and then fully ward and lock the diary before he gets out of the tub, as I provided him with a nightcap to assist the restorative powers of the hot water. R does take his time with fine single malt.

And that reminds me -- only a week until R’s fiftieth birthday! Which he’s less than excited about, actually. This morning at work when Dawn hinted too much about our plans, he gave strict instructions that there be no presents, parties, or indeed mentions of the day because birthdays depress him. A year ago on his natal day his behaviour had resembled that of a Iuy demon (very anti-birthday, the Iuy, not to mention nasty, what with the rotting teeth which is not like R whose teeth are lovely), but I had assumed that the stress of the First Evil, losing most of the Watchers, our relationship being outed to the Scoobies with accompanying ugly scenes, and our first month living together in a four-hundred-square-foot apartment was responsible. Now, I guess not. He’s just cranky about birthdays.

Of course the idiotic man _will_ be getting presents. A rare extra-dimensional copy of the _Demon Aurorae_ came in today – Andrew sourced it from that creepy H’tot in Malta, good job Andrew – and this morning I arranged a little something special with annoying, semi-evil but helpful Jools. (I won’t say more, because R is fully capable of trying to break in and read what is not meant for him, and if you are reading this, honey, I will be wreaking vengeance on your attractive, almost-one-year-older ass.)

Also, after tonight’s adventure R needs a new watch. Will research for further gift-giving.

But never mind, because more stuff than a cranky husband happened.

During a routine visit for supplies and gossip this morning, Nalph told us that some Bara demons had holed up in a bed-and-breakfast near Paddington and would be venturing forth some fine evening soon to start a bloody internecine battle with the Shap demons who free-range in Kensington Gardens. What starts in one dimension should stay in one dimension, I always say, but this apparently is not Bara policy. Nor is bathing, which is unpleasant and off-putting to tourists, as the Baras smell like decaying rubbish left out for days on the kerb.

When we called the information in to Tom Quinn, he told us that he, Zoe, and Danny were very busy with an actual espionage emergency – implication being that ours was not – and he asked if we could please do an evening’s surveillance in the area to see where the Bara were staying and what their route of their evening activity was. R told him that the Shap demons congregated near the statue of Peter Pan which therefore would seem to be the likely focus of the demon light exercise and gang warfare, but Tom insisted we watch outside the Royal Parks. Whatever. Our fee’s the same.

It was a cold grey evening, and when we found (assisted by a locating spell) a parking space on Westbourne Terrace, right across from the Sussex Gardens b-and-b where the Baras were reported to be, R didn’t even grumble when I hopped out to grab us a couple of lattes at the local Starbucks. Usually he takes surveillance very seriously which includes an irritating resistance to taking even important breaks to pee, but the Saab’s heater isn’t working well and we also needed caffeine.

This was a stroke of spy-luck. When online at the Starbucks I actually overheard a Shap demon – cleverly disguised as an older American woman in trainers and a Go Hawkeyes sweatshirt, but I know the Shaps – whisper to her equally Shap friend that the weapons were being collected in two hours and then they’d be away. They were going to raid the Bara stronghold, aka The Royal Corgi Hotel, just across the street. This was just not good.

I hurried back without even waiting for our drinks and told R. He got on the comm unit and tried to reach a) Tom, b) Zoe, c) Danny, d) Jools (for MI6 backup or Special Branch connections), e) Jack Ferry, the new Council field-liaison who teaches at Dawn’s academy, and f) Andrew and Dawn (to make sure the dogs were fed). No one answered except Dawn. We were field-agents on our own.

R then got out to “stretch his legs,” which means he loitered in a vaguely casual manner outside the Royal Corgi for a few minutes. When he got back, he told me that he saw Bara demons peeking out at several windows, and also encountered on the pavement -- I wish I could capture the superior wrinkle of his nose when he said this-- “sodding Bara spoor.” Further, he figured out that the Shap demons’s point of attack would be the cellar windows.

Not that this meant much, as I pointed out, because we had no way of engaging either side, and if he thought he was going to charge into actual battle alone with just a sword and a spell, he was very much mistaken. We then had a lovely fifteen-minute argument, which made us both feel much, much better so we could concentrate on the problem at hand.

I don’t recall which of us first remembered the Shaps’ and Baras’ mutual allergy to their home dimension’s Koenigli plant, but we both remembered at the same time that human curry powder can be substituted as a mild (incapacitating yet non-lethal) biological weapon against all beings of this particular dimension. We went out to the nearby Indian takeaway-and-grocery place and bought six chicken curry dishes and three bottles of curry powder (mem: expense this to MI5), did a quick do-not-be-seen spell, and then scattered five of the dishes and most of the powder at crucial points of ingress and egress to the Royal Corgi. It looked normal, if normality was a restaurant’s delivery cart exploding messily everywhere, but we could hear the Baras wheezing from inside even before we finished.

Then we settled back in the Saab to share the last chicken curry and wait to make sure the Shaps were foiled for the time being. While we ate and shared the Perrier he’d bought at the same time, I decided to get some of my scrapbook material from my briefcase. As I leafed through the magazines Dawn had got for me, R asked me what I was doing. (“What the bloody hell are you doing with those glossy mags, darling? And how can you see in this light?” is what he actually said.)

Although I wasn’t really far enough in the scrapbook for it to work properly, I flipped on the overhead light and then showed him what I had. “See, honey,” I said, pointing to the several pictures, “this is Sir Paul McCartney with his much younger bride Heather Mills. And their new daughter.”

“Yes, I see,” he said noncommittally. It wasn’t an encouraging sound, even though the picture was a quite lovely domestic scene.

Then I showed him several more pictures of Sir Paul with new baby, before I moved on to the Eric Clapton section, with a couple of photos of guitar-god and extremely young daughter.

“Oh, Anya–“ And R began to laugh so hard that he snorted a bit of curry out his distinguished nose. “You’re not seriously showing me pictures of aged rock stars and their children so I’ll... I’ll –"

“So you’ll see it’s not horrible for you to father a child at your age, yes I am. As you haven’t been listening to my other arguments,” I snapped, and then shut the book. My feelings were a little hurt. A lot hurt, actually.

He finished the Perrier, then wiped his face and hands clean before he turned off the overhead light and turned to me. He wasn’t laughing any more. And he took my hands and said very quietly that he was thinking about it, he really was even though the whole idea made him uncomfortable, because he knew how much it meant to me.

I had to kiss him for that, because he is such a good man and I do know that he’d given up hoping years ago and thus he’s a little insane about the topic. And then I kissed him again because the first time was so enjoyable. He really tastes astonishingly good, even with the overlay of cheap curry and overpriced sparkling water. I could spend all my time kissing him.

But then something smashed against the driver’s side window, and R went all super-spy before I was quite finished.

A little ahead of schedule, a Shap demon had apparently stepped in the remains of a curry, and then convulsed in sneezing, resulting in squished Shap against Saab window. Its three friends looked like they were going to get ugly uglier, and there were a lot of mundanes (as Dawn calls them) on the street. So R slammed open the car door right into the Shap, and got out, holding the last jar of curry powder. There were threats and various posturings, and then R threw a handful of curry at the Shap demon (the one in American-tourist drag) who was charging him. In the renewed convulsions the demon briefly pinned R’s arm against the car, which broke R’s watch and did no favours for his wrist, my poor honey, but one more bit of curry powder and the Shaps reeled away toward Kensington Gardens.

I was on the comm unit by that time, and I finally reached Tom, who seemed impressed and sort of amused by the travails of demon espionage. Of course it wasn’t his watch that got broken. Anyway, he’s calling in Special Branch to have the combatants moved on, so that the tourists and locals in Paddington will be safe.

I wrapped R’s hurt wrist, just to be on the safe side – I’ve become an expert in this, what with his accident-prone nature – and then, in what upset him more than anything else the whole eventful night, I drove us home. I don't think he opened his eyes from the time we got on the Marylebone Road until we pulled in front of the house.

So now we’re home after a successful evening’s work, and maybe he’s almost ready to listen seriously to a baby-discussion. I can hear the water draining in the tub – he’ll be out soon. Better lock this up!

Addendum 11:45 pm

Tonight’s sex -- sitting up in the big armchair, me on his lap. Even with hurt wrist, he is quite twisty. Still tastes amazing too. R is such a very good man, and he definitely deserves presents for his birthday, whether he wants them or not.


	3. The Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Rupert's birthday. He hates his birthday. Anya will find out why.

_Monday, January 17, 2004  
7:30 am_

 _Because it’s safer here than where R can find it, even though he’s just taken Macallan and Cava for their run and therefore shouldn’t be even thinking about my journal or possible party plans, the list of things to be done today:  
 ~~remind Jools re R’s gift~~  
 ~~also, unfortunately, remind him re his attendance at dinner~~ ; Elinor regrets, thank the Powers!  
 ~~Zoe call~~ ; cake, plus Wes  
 ~~send off latest Magic Box by Air shipments~~  
 ~~speak to Helmut in Berlin re Sagash’s Ring for client~~  
 ~~Almeida Brasserie~~ (no duck) ARRIVED  
 ~~wrap presents~~  
 ~~centrepiece, bread, salad ~~  
 ~~choose attractive party clothes~~~~~~_

 _6:30 pm: It’s very satisfying to see everything’s done, and I think I’m as ready for the Celebration of R as I possibly can be. I wish myself luck. I might need it._

Anya closes her diary and wards it almost absent-mindedly. She’s already thinking ahead a few minutes to when Dawn is scheduled to tow an unwitting Rupert through the door, to when the dinner party – not a _birthday party_ , because he doesn’t want that, but a surprise Celebration of All Things Rupert dinner – is supposed to begin.

She so hopes he takes this lovely party in the spirit of husband-appreciation in which it is intended, but she has a sneaking, hoppy-thing fear that he’s going to be difficult. All signs, portents, and overly sarcastic spousal remarks do that way tend.

He had been cheerful that morning when she had wished him a happy day (“Just ‘day,’ honey!”) and made him his favourite breakfast after he’d taken the dogs for their run. When he’d held her hand on the Tube journey into work, she hadn’t even minded that she couldn’t read the Telegraph obituary page, because he was so handsomely overcoated and smiling and a bulwark against cold weather, other commuters, and evil in general. However, his smile had faded through the day – he could have been made suspicious by all her dashing out to make celebration-related arrangements, or possibly just irritable because he couldn’t find the reference for the Shap demon asylum he was arguing for in an MI5 report in progress. By afternoon tea-break he had become the most glowering male in the greater London area, and yes, she’s counting the two Kervon demons who live near Wembley.

When she hears the dogs bark downstairs, she shakes off her fear. It’s _right_ that they have a dinner party to celebrate him, and he’ll just have to deal with the attention the best he can. One last glance in the mirror, a smile at her new beaded top sparkling in the lamplight to match the rings on her hand, and she hurries down to finish the last-minute arrangements.

Andrew’s in charge of getting the dinner ready – heating up the roast chicken from the Almeida Brasserie, and also fixing the bread and salad she bought on her way home from Investigations and Acquisitions – but when she walks into the kitchen, he’s busily snogging his boyfriend against the refrigerator. “That’s not really party preparation, is it, Andrew?” she says. “And hello, Ian.”

“Evening, Anya,” Ian manages once his tongue is released. Andrew doesn’t say anything, but scurries over to the kitchen table as fast as his little erection will allow him to move, in a pathetic attempt to fulfill his duty. Ian smiles at her. “I’ve opened the white Burgundy to let it breathe. You’re really doing the thing proper for old Rupert.”

“Thank you, Ian! I appreciate your help. However, if you use the word ‘old’ in my husband’s hearing tonight, I’ll cut off your testicles and feed them to the dogs,” she says sweetly, already on her way to the rarely used door between the kitchen and her work room which tonight is rearranged for dining.

Behind her she can hear Andrew hiss, “I _told/_ you! Now go light the fire in the living room, because we’ll have our after-dinner coffee there.” It pleases her that Andrew demonstrates the right priorities after all.

The sight of the potions room pleases her even more. The more dangerous ingredients have been stored out in the greenhouse for the night, and only the faintest hint of magic lingers in sparks of gold in the corners. The work table has been cleared and now laid with a tablecloth, a centrepiece of greenery, and some good china of his mother’s that Rupert unearthed at Swallow’s Nest. A small pile of presents mark his place of honour, and the candles are ready to be lit.

Nevertheless she closes her eyes and wishes when she puts the flame to each candle. She couldn’t say what she wishes for, but she feels the power course up and down her spine like Rupert’s hands undressing her. She wishes again, harder.

When she goes back out, the dogs are barking – Zoe and Wes have arrived. Anya surveys them even as she takes the cake they’ve brought as birthday tribute, points them to the wine, and makes celebratory conversation. He doesn’t look as borderline-deranged as usual, so his brief London holiday from Watchering must be helping him. More specifically, she thinks that enthusiastic sex with Zoe must be helping him; there are Zoe’s random bruises and his whisper in her ear and her hand slipping into his pocket. But Anya knows she’ll get the full report on Thursday when she and Zoe have their regular lunch meeting.

That cheerful thought gets her through the moment when Jools arrives. His wife hasn’t returned from her spa weekend, so he’s solo tonight; this means his annoyingness is concentrated in one tall, well-dressed package without any buffer zone at all. She doesn’t understand why Rupert plays squash with him once a week or indeed ever speaks to him outside the confines of work or the health club, but then in a thousand years she’s never fully comprehended male friendship and it’s really too late to try. She takes the special package he’s procured for her, smiles as nicely as she can without having the joy of kicking him in the shins, and steers him toward his son and Zoe. She’ll make it up to Zoe later.

The last gift for Rupert smells just right, the bag fitting into the hollow of her hand with a pleasing weight. Letting Andrew finish up the salad preparations, she hurries upstairs to put it away in the gift-bag she’s already made. This present is just for the two of them.

When she comes back downstairs, Tom Quinn has arrived, also alone since his latest relationship blew up (literally) and Danny’s on assignment. Tom has _terrible_ luck with women, despite his undeniable spy good looks. But she’ll have to remind Dawn again that Intense Crazy Pretty Men are vengeance-wishes waiting to happen – Anya’s seen the speculative teenage looks, which bode nothing but tears and possibly a furious Slayer flying in from Cleveland to kick all MI5 arses in the vicinity, including Rupert’s even though it wouldn’t be his fault.

And then there’s a rattle of wind and voices outside, she can hear Dawn giggling, and the door swings open on a rush of cold that threatens the entryway candle flames. Dawn leads Rupert inside, saying, “Fooled you! Surprise!”

Their guests clutter the hall, everyone except Jools echoing the greeting, while Macallan and Cava tail-wag their hellos.

Rupert stands there, with one hand still on the door as if he’s going to hurl himself back out in the night. Although he’s trying to smile, she can see the temper-lines fanning out from his eyes. With a sigh she goes to him, shuts the door, and reaches up for a kiss of winter smoke and irritation; he nips a little before he lifts his head. She whispers, “Before you get thunderous, honey, it’s not a _birthday_ party. It’s just a Celebration of You. That’s a very different thing.”

“Oh, of course it is, darling,” he says under his breath, his arm going around her waist much harder than the occasion warrants. Then he looks up, all narrowed eyes and set jaw behind his false smile. “Right, hello, everyone. Er, any wine open?”

Yes, the signs, portents, and overly sarcastic spousal remarks don’t lie. He’s going to be difficult.

......................................

Giles has tried to join in the festive spirit, he truly has. He’s told himself that the thought was generous and wholly Anya in its spin on what he told her he didn’t want, reminded himself of all those years he felt unappreciated and unseen. All those years....

He’s so bloody depressed. And angry, even though he knows he shouldn’t be.

He finishes the last of his after-dinner coffee and then leans back against the sofa. For a moment he’s alone in the living room, watching the fire. Andrew and Ian have gone up to his rooms, now that Giles has re-affirmed how much he likes the rare _Demon Aurorae_ – the “I &A team’s gift, even though _I_ was the one who found it!” Andrew had said. Anya’s in the kitchen with Zoe putting away the dishes; he can hear his wife’s laughter over the sound of Dawn in the hall asking Tom about some current issue in the House of Commons about espionage funding. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Dawn was flirting – oh for fuck’s sake, he must be imagining things.

He itches for another cigarette, can feel the phantom-smoke in his lungs and the itch of burning paper between his fingers. But he’s already smoked his daily allowance with Jools in the garden after dessert, a brief respite of easy insults and discussion about cricket with the smug arse, and now Wes is out there in the cold talking to his father.

The thought of fatherhood sends him to his feet, even though he doesn’t have anywhere to go. All those years....

And Dawn and Tom appear in the archway. “You didn’t have to get up, Giles,” Tom says. “But I do have to be going.”

“Right. Well, good to see you, thank you for coming,” he says, making himself smile again. His jaw is starting to hurt.

As he shakes hands, Tom leans in to say quietly, “Harry’s going to want to talk to you about the demon relocation issue. Probably Thursday.”

“Interesting. I won’t want to talk to _him_.”

Tom smiles at that, touches Dawn on the shoulder – Giles tells himself again he’s imagining things – and then leaves. She looks after him for a moment, then in a burst of energy says, “Did you have a good... not birthday, Giles, because of the birthday neurosis, but, um –“

“Yes, a lovely day. And thank you for the vinyl copy of _My Aim is True_. A wonderful gift.” At least his thank-you is sincere.

She smiles again. “It’s from Buffy too, you know! A Summers-girl joint effort, even though I picked it out. And your card’s on the way from her and Spike, she told me.”

“Oh, good.” Oh good God.

But then Zoe and Anya come out of the kitchen, and Jools and Wes come in with the dogs from the back garden, and it’s the last bubbles of chatter and fucking birthday wishes until the guests go out the front door.

A wave of January air sneaks in as the door closes, and he shudders off the chill. But Anya is right there, her hand finding his. “You’d better go in to the fire, honey, you don’t want to catch a cold on today of all days."

“I’m fine,” he snaps, even as he links their fingers. A count to five, before he makes himself smile again. “Sorry, darling, but I’m fine. Do you need any help clearing up in the kitchen, or–“

“All done,” she says, then gazes at him, her own smile a little wary. “Well, the clearing up is done. The present-giving isn’t done.”

“I don’t need any more presents. Besides, the book was from you too.”

“Yes, but did you honestly think my actual gift to you was a damn demon encyclopedia?”

At that, Dawn says in a nervous rush, “Well, gotta go! Homework and I’m expecting a call from Willow, and, yeah. I’m just going to go on.” She hugs him and then Anya – he can hear her whisper, “Oops, still grouchy. We should have let him have that third glass of wine” – before she gallops up the stairs.

He’s left hand-in-hand with Anya, who’s staring at him with as much irritation as he feels. She says again, “Did you think that I’d only celebrate you with a demon book? Much as you like musty old volumes, of course, which I tried to accommodate, it doesn’t seem like a birthday–“

“Anya, just....” He doesn’t want to hurt her feelings, and he’s tired of trying to be polite. So he pulls her to him for a kiss, catching the last tastes of chocolate and coffee from her mouth, before saying, “I need to bank the fire before we go to bed.”

“Yes, you should do that, honey.” Her stare is the equivalent of a sharp wifely ‘Nice but failed diversionary tactic, stupid man.’ “Your last present is upstairs.”

“Well, I’ll just work with the fire first, get that, er, squared away.” And not have to look at her and see failure again. All those years gone.... He kisses her fingers and then drops her hand. As he crosses to the fireplace, he can hear her at the door, throwing the locks, setting the wards. Blowing out the wish-candles she keeps lit for them both. He shivers again.

Fire’s going out all on its own, he sees when he crouches beside it. Still, the last of the blue flames lick against the brickwork, white smoke drawn up into the night. Despite precautions, he can feel a draught of cold here too.

And then he feels Anya drape herself across his back, warm featherweight woman with sharp beads poking through his shirt. Her arms come around his neck, and without sight she starts to loosen his tie. Her fingers tickle against his neck and down onto his chest, teasing like her breath on his ear. She whispers, “Rupert, are you ever going to tell me what’s really wrong? Did I do something to upset you?”

His hand catches hers, and once more he kisses her fingers. “You’re wonderful, dearest, and I do thank you. I just... I don’t like my birthday.”

“Tell me,” she says again, the way she always does.

She expects so much from him, and he tries to give it. He does try. As the fire makes a last merry leap in the draught, he looks into it, stares at the barriers crumbling into ash, giving him the words he’s been hiding. “My father died when he was sixty-two.”

She murmurs something he can’t hear, wraps his loose tie around her hand. He says more slowly, “My father died when he was sixty-two. His father died young before him. Not in the way of danger or anything, just a heart attack. Genetics, I suppose.” The fire snaps again, then falls away in his silence. He tries again. “All I could think about today was them, and ‘That’s one less year with Anya.’ So many years wasted, so little left, and now – one less with you.”

Her breath against his ear, a brush of her silk-wrapped hand against his chest, but she says nothing for a long moment. Then she slides around, her sweater catching on his shirt, and kisses him, a fast angry pressure. “And _this_ ,” she says, “is why I stopped letting you look at the account books. Honey, you can’t do math at _all_.”

“Anya–“

“First, you’re not your father. Second, your birthday is addition, not subtraction, Rupert. At least it is for me. It’s _more_.” Her hands slide up, cupping his shoulders in passing, as she stands, and then he loses the heat of her when she moves away. She pauses at the archway, though; he can feel her attention even though he’s still staring blindly at the fire. She says more quietly, “But I understand now. I won’t hurt you again by calling attention to the day. I won’t ask you for children again, now that I know what you’re really worried about.”

At that he turns around. “Darling, I didn’t mean.... I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” She makes herself smile. He can feel her effort, the same ache he’s been living with all day. “But I love you even though you’re numbers-challenged and pessimistic, and you still have one last present. Come up when you’re ready, honey.”

The room is all but silent after she and the dogs leave. He crouches there and watches the fire die, the white smoke drawn into the night.

................................

 _10:45 pm.  
Well, R’s party went as expected. Good food – the roast chicken was v. well received – all guests behaving according to their usual lovely or annoying habits. Yes. Everything went as expected._

Anya puts down her pen and closes her diary without locking it. She doesn’t have the heart to finish the entry, to record how worried she is about Dawn’s crush, how Andrew and Ian pulled their tongues out of each other’s mouths long enough to be a great help to her, how Zoe and Wes made that horrible joke about the Traditionalists Club which sent Jools into a sulk only alleviated by three-quarters of their very best bottle of Villedieu. How Rupert smiled, and drank his own wine, and looked like he was being repeatedly stabbed with a butter-knife the entire evening.

But she knows why he’s upset, and she doesn’t have the heart to write it down yet. She doesn’t have the heart to think about it yet.

So instead she goes into the bathroom, where her second outfit of the evening is waiting. She washes her face to get off the tear-stains before she wriggles into the leather vest to her spy-outfit, the little boy-cut panties Rupert likes so well on her, and her highest fetish heels. A dab of perfume between her breasts and another in the crease of her thigh, and she’s ready.

When she comes out of the bathroom, he’s already standing next to the bed, his glasses and shoes off, shirt open, tie dangling. He’s gleaming and silvered, and he says in an annoyingly normal voice, “Er, darling, there you are.” Then he takes another look. Pushing up at glasses that aren’t there, he says, “Oh, Anya _darling_.”

“Just a little something for the last of your celebration,” she manages. She twirls once without falling off her heels – great, at least something’s going right – and then slinks toward him. He watches her walk, a little smile on his lips.

Then she _is_ falling, because he’s grabbed her and tossed her on the bed before she can even blink, and he’s warm and heavy on top of her. “I think I’ll open my present now,” he says, his hands already skimming under the leather to tease her nipples.

“Honey, I’m not your–“

But he’s kissing her, mouth open and tongue insistent, while his thumb flicks at her nipple again and again, while his other hand undoes her vest buttons. When she’s going blind from oxygen deprivation and the pleasure of his lips and hands and his thigh moving against her, he lifts his head. “I believe it’s still my birthday for another hour. I get to determine what my present is.”

“But you’ve made this huge fuss about how you don’t like your birthday,” she gasps, even as he begins to run his tongue along her neck, lick and suction and floating until he moves further down, and she stops talking in favour of her hands on his arse, pressing his hardening cock against her hip, rolling herself against him even as he runs his teeth across her nipples.

When she’s breathless, he says, “At the moment I like it.” And then somehow he’s naked and her panties are off, and the room is spinning around her. She’s never sure how she next finds herself standing with spread legs at the foot of their bed, hands tied to the metal bedstead, while her husband kisses his way up the back of her thighs and then opens her with his tongue as his hand comes around to trace her folds. This is not exactly the way she expected the conclusion of their evening to go, she thinks as she rises on her toes for him to devour her, when she comes for him first with a muffled little shriek.

Still kneeling, his head now resting on the curve of her bottom, he murmurs, “Lovely. Bloody sight more delicious than the Villedieu.” Then he’s standing behind her, his hands bending her over and then gripping her hips so that she’s in the right place for him, and he slides in so deep and hard that she could cry, except that he’s already found his rhythm and she wants to take him in even further. She closes her eyes and leans her weight on her bound hands, letting him lift her off her toes, letting him stroke over and over until he says her name in a voice like he’s praying and comes so hard that it makes her follow him.

When he unties her, she shakily crawls over the bedstead and flops onto her side of the bed. She’s very sticky from sex-fluids, but she doesn’t care enough to move. He turns off the light and then gets into bed like a normal person. When she opens her eyes, he’s right there, warm and close, smiling at her in the candlelight. “Are you planning to take off your shoes?”

She squints down at her feet. “Oh. I don’t think I can.”

“Er, I suppose it’s my job in any case. I should have finished unwrapping my gift.” With a little grunt, he sits up and then pulls her feet into his lap. As he starts to unbuckle, he says, “So what was my other present, anyway?”

She limply waves at her bedside table. “That bag there. It’s some of the high-quality marijuana that MI6 confiscated from that double-agent. You were talking the other day about how you missed a spliff now and then, and annoying Jools said something to me about their cache, and so....”

But he’s laughing helplessly, one shoe in his hand, the other hand over his eyes. “Anya, you got me contraband marijuana for my fiftieth birthday?”

“Is that wrong? Is there another controlled substance that’s more appropriate for the fiftieth year?” When she rolls over on her back, he drops his hand and smiles at her. She says, “But, um, now we’re not going to get paid for the pixie-clearance in his cellar. It’s a barter arrangement. Completely off the books.”

His smile changes somehow as he says, “I trust your accounting, dearest.” He takes off her other shoe and helps her under the covers before he blows out the bedside candles. Then, in the darkness: “Be right back.”

She makes an affirmative noise – words are slipping away, she’s really tired all of a sudden. Even though she can hear weird unexpected noises from the bathroom, a sort of low banging, she just buries her head in her pillow and lets herself stop thinking. This celebration-thing is exhausting.

When he crawls back in bed, however, he’s cold, and the temperature-shock reminds her that she needs to pee. When she gets up, he raises up on his elbows – even in the dark, she can tell he’s watching her stumble to the bathroom.

And then she flips on the bathroom light and stops. Heart stops. Her diary is open on the counter. Next to it is next month’s supply of birth-control pills, or what was next month’s supply – they’re all broken now in the case, apparently crushed by the heel of her fetish shoe.

She goes to the open diary. In a familiar bold but small cursive, it reads:

 **11:35 pm.**

 **After considering more rationally his fears about birthdays and having children, R has decided that his wife is indeed much better at maths than he is, and she deserves more. More in every way.**

 **We can try, darling.**


End file.
